


Prophecy of an Abomination (Abridged)

by ashitanoyuki



Series: Prophecy of an Abomination [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Beating, Catholic Sam Winchester, Crucifixion, F/M, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Sam's psychic powers, Minor Character Death, Multi, Sam Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sam Has an Eating Disorder, Sam Whump, Sam Winchester-centric, Sam-Centric, Serious Injuries, Shaken Faith, Show-level instances of sexism and cissexism, The Winchesters are absolute crap about mental health, Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester, Trauma, Vengeful Dean Winchester, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: Sam is kidnapped by fanatically religious hunters and crucified. Coming back from this won't be easy.Canon-divergent from midway through season 2.





	Prophecy of an Abomination (Abridged)

**Author's Note:**

> This is originally what I wanted to do with Prophecy of an Abomination, before I got completely caught up in details and ended up pretty much writing out individual episodes line-by-line. I wanted to post this as well, alongside the monstrosity that it became.

He woke up in the middle of the night to a heavy body above him and cloth covering his face. “Shhh, it’s okay, Sammy,” Gordon Walker said, his eyes expressionless, his voice soothing. Sam struggled wildly, his limbs strangely heavy; he tried to flail, but he body wasn’t quite obeying his commands. “Sorry it had to be this way, but you’ll get it. You were a hunter, you’ll understand.”

Sam moved weakly, disconnected from his body. This was wrong. Something about this was very, very wrong.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

 

Sam came back to himself gradually, his limbs twitching against a multitude of ropes. He was curled in the footwell of the front seat of a car, he realized. Duct tape pulled at his mouth as he looked around – the tape was wrapped around his face multiple times, not just slapped across his lips. Damn. His kidnapper was no amateur.

“I want you to know, this doesn’t make me happy, Sammy.” Sam jumped at the familiar voice.  _Gordon._ “I’d’ve just as soon put a bullet in you, nice and quiet, if it were up to me. But I’ve got a debt to some other hunters, and they want things like you. Nothing personal, but you were a hunter. You know creatures have to be put down.”

Sam grimaced and ran his tongue against the seam of his lips, futilely trying to wet the tape enough to render it useless. “Gordon!” he shouted, the gag rendering him unintelligible.

“I’d tell you not to fight, but I know you won’t listen,” Gordon said, his voice calm and measured. “That’s okay. You go on and wear yourself out. You’re not getting out of this alive no matter what, but feel free to struggle.”

Sam growled. Gordon hit a pothole, and Sam jolted, his shoulder slapping hard against the car floor. “Mmynnaguhuh,” he snarled.  _I’m gonna kill you._

The sun rose as they continued their drive, a new day beginning as Sam jolted around in the footwell of some damn truck. Hours passed before Gordon stopped, by which point Sam was sure his entire body was one giant bruise from bumping against the floor of the car and smacking against the glove compartment. Gordon stepped out of the driver’s seat, walked around to open the passenger door, and hefted Sam over one shoulder. Sam thrashed, cursing behind his gag, but Gordon barely stumbled, making his way towards what appeared to be a dilapidated, abandoned church. Two unfamiliar men lounged in folding chairs in front of the church; they rose as Gordon walked towards them.

“What’cha got for me this time, Gordon?” one of the unfamiliar men rasped. Sam grunted as Gordon deposited him before a ruddy blond with cruel eyes. Behind him, the other man shifted and fiddled with the ball cap in his hands, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Sam Winchester,” Gordon said. “Psychic. One of those demon-tainted kids.”

The blond man tutted. “Psychic, hm?” he murmured. “Of course he is.” He chuckled. “‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits, whether they are of God; because many false prophets have gone out into the world.’ Looks like John the Apostle knew what he was talking about.” The man glared at Sam. “And here we have one of these false prophets. Speaking the future, claiming to speak the truth, trying to make himself God on this earth.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gordon said dismissively. “Do I still owe you, Kubrick? Or does this one finally meet your exacting standards?”

The man – Kubrick – stared down at Sam for well over a minute. He knelt and searched Sam’s face for a long moment, then seized his hair, yanking him up hard. Sam grunted with pain as he was hauled to his knees, his scalp screaming. “He takes on a likeness of Jesus and preaches false prophecy,” Kubrick said, eerily calm. “This is the one I was looking for. You don’t owe me anymore, Gordon. Thanks for  _finally_ delivering him to justice.”

Gordon snorted. “Okay. I leave him with you, and I won’t be bringing you another one just ‘cause you change your mind,” he said, taking a few steps back. “Time to get back to taking out monsters the  _civilized_ way.”

Kubrick barely seemed to hear him. “You do that,” he said. His face twisted and his hand tightened as he yanked Sam’s head back further, staring at him. “Well, what do you have to say, boy?” he demanded.

Sam took a deep breath through his nose and glared at the man. He wet his lips behind the gag, and did not even try to produce sound. “Thought so,” Kubrick said nastily. “Creedy, you got the research this time? How to do it right?”

“Jeez, Gordon,” the other man said nervously, “I dunno. Can’t we just shoot this one?”

Kubrick glared at the other man. “This is an imposter of Jesus Christ,” he spat. “If the boy wants to pretend to be Jesus, he can die like Jesus – stripped and scourged and nailed to a cross.”

Sam thrashed desperately, struggling to break free of his bonds. The mention of a cross was a sure indication that these were the men who crucified Scott.  _Father, help me, please help,_ he begged.  _Lord, please, help me. Please, let Dean find me,_ please –

“None of that.” Sam huffed as he was bodily thrown to the ground. Kubrick pinned him down with one knee, pulled out a knife, and began to slice. “They called lots for his clothes,” the man said, stripping Sam of his shirt, of his sleep pants and boxers and even his socks, leaving him bare-ass naked in the dirt. “I don’t think your clothes will go for much,” Kubrick said tauntingly. “And what’s this?” He pulled the battered old rosary from Sam’s pocket and went eerily still.

Sam watched Kubrick warily, noting the man’s stony expression. “An abomination that carries around a cross with the image of the Holy Mother,” Kubrick said quietly, his voice dangerous. He drew his hand back, and Sam dropped his head backwards before Kubrick’s open palm could connect with his face. The slap still stung, and Sam gritted his teeth, glaring at the man. “You blasphemer, you’d soil a holy image like this?” he demanded furiously. “Creedy! Is the post ready?”

A moment of silence passed. “Creedy!” Kubrick shouted.

“Uh, yeah, we’re ready,” Creedy called nervously.

Sam grunted as Kubrick dragged him to his feet and hauled him forward by the wrist. A tall post stood erect in the dust, and Sam jerked desperately as Kubrick dragged him forward and bound his arms to the post, old rags and rugged twine wrapping around his wrists. The position forced him to hunch awkwardly, and a part of Sam realized that if he fell to his knees, his hands would be stretched fully above his head.

He wouldn’t give these bastards the satisfaction.

Sam had a moment to breathe before the loud crack of a leather belt sounded against his back. He stiffened, grinding his teeth and holding his breath against the gag. Crack. Crack. Crack. The belt laid across his back five, ten, fifteen times. Sam inhaled deeply, forcing himself to keep a steady pattern with his breathing.

_Crack._ Sam nearly lost his footing as the end of the belt slammed punishingly against his back, coming down square on his kidney. He grunted as agony flared in the affected area. Yep, he’d be pissing blood for the next few days, he’d bet.

“It’s not enough.” The beating ceased for a few seconds, and Sam fought to catch his breath, steeling himself for the continued onslaught.

_Thwack._ Sam yelped, startled, as fire lanced across his shoulders. Another strike, and he realized that Kubrick had turned the belt around and was beating him with the buckled side. The buckle lanced hard across his back, catching the top of his ass; a second blow to the same spot followed. Sam grunted as his legs gave, his knees hitting the dusty ground hard. So much for not giving them the satisfaction.

Kubrick’s breath was beginning to grow labored. “That’s it, sinner,” the man panted. “Repent on your knees, but it won’t do you any good. You’re going to Hell, with all the other false prophets like you.”

The whipping ceased only when Sam stopped jolting, his knees bloody from sliding back and forth across the gritty ground. His back burned – he’d had worse, he knew it, but  _damn_ did it still hurt. Blood trickled down his skin, scattered droplets landing occasionally on the backs of his calves and his feet. The scrape of rough twine against his raw wrists was agony, and Sam was pretty sure they were bleeding too.

“Gotta keep you at least somewhat intact,” Kubrick muttered, stalking around to face Sam. “Ready to confess your sins?” He brandished a knife, and Sam flinched, but Kubrick only used it to cut the gag and rip off the tape.

His lips cracked and bled as the tape took skin and stubble with it. “Fuck you,” Sam spat, glaring at the man. “When my brother finds you –”

“He won’t,” Kubrick said, grinning. “Keep talking, demon. Keep telling me about your plans to kill us all.” Kubrick slid on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and then picked up a length of barbed wire, brandishing it at Sam.

Sam jerked backwards against his bonds. “I’m not a  _demon,_ Kubrick, and I don’t have plans to kill anyone! I’m Sam Winchester. John Winchester’s son –”

“And we were told all about you, yeah,” Kubrick said, grinning. He began unspooling the length of barbed wire, and oh shit, Sam knew where he was going with this. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the pole, but Kubrick seized him by the hair and wrenched his head back, measuring out the length and beginning to wrap the wire around his skull. “You used to be human, but now you’re just like any other demon, just another antichrist. If you don’t die and Dean won’t kill you – and from what Gordon says of your soft-hearted brother, he won’t do it – we gotta take you out ourselves. It’s God’s will.”

Barbs punctured his skin, irritating pinpricks that turned to burning needles as the wire was drawn tight. Sam bit back a yell as tiny beads of blood began to form around his forehead. “I’m not a demon, Kubrick, I’m human! Test me! Salt, exorcism, devil’s traps – test me!”

Creedy  _(or whatever his name was)_  shifted uncomfortably in Sam’s peripheral vision. “We sure this is right?” Creedy asked hesitantly. “The other kid’d at least killed someone.”

“They’re demon spawn,” Kubrick said dismissively, tugging one last time on the wire and binding it at the back of Sam’s head. A droplet of blood narrowly missed Sam’s right eye, and he flinched, the motion sending pain streaking down his welted back. “They’re all killers. This one just hides it behind hunting.” Sam jolted forward as Kubrick slapped his ravaged back, the impact sending searing pain through his body. He opened his mouth to scream and choked on air. Coughing, he struggled to bring oxygen back to his lungs, his mind whirling desperately.

There was no way Sam was going to get through to Kubrick. The man was too damn obsessed. “Creedy,” he managed, panting. “Creedy, please. I’m a hunter. I’ve never killed a human.”  _Don’t think about Meg. Meg was a demon. It was the Daeva that killed her host body._

“To hear from Gordon, you sure do like letting vamps live to see another night, though,” Kubrick remarked acerbically. “And how many humans do you think they killed, boy?”

“None,” Sam gasped. “They were drinking cow blood, they weren’t drinking from humans, I swear.” He forced himself to look past Kubrick and met Creedy’s eyes. “Please. I’m human – I’m  _Christian,_ I’m not the antichrist! I’m a confirmed Catholic, I go to mass and confession and everything, please! You don’t have to do this!” He tried to swallow, his throat sandpaper dry. “I never asked to be psychic, and I never hurt anyone! I’m human!”

Creedy wiped his own sweating brow with the back of his hand, uncertainty twisting his lined face. “Can you – can you gag him?” he asked, looking to Kubrick for reassurance.

“Put your lady parts away, Creedy,” Kubrick snapped. “And help me with the crossbeam. He’ll be quiet soon enough – no more liar’s words coming from his false tongue.”

Something heavy, flat, and wooden pressed against Sam’s back. “Hold it there,” Kubrick ordered. His grip was like steel as he untied Sam’s left hand and yanked his arm back flush against the board. Sam snarled and strained, trying every technique he could think of to yank his arm away, but Kubrick’s punishing hands held him in place. The man secured a rope around his wrist and looped it to the beam, then made his way up Sam’s arm, pausing at the bicep. “Well, that’s an idea,” Kubrick said thoughtfully. “Keep him still, Creedy, I mean it. He’s gonna wiggle at this one.”

Sam barely had time to wonder what the man meant before hard hands clamped down around his shoulder, pushing it at a diagonal _._ For several long seconds, the pressure increased despite Sam’s struggles –

_Pop._

Sam  _screamed_ as his shoulder dislocated, fire roaring through his arm and clavicle. Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes, and he went limp as Kubrick bound the rest of his arm up to his shoulder, tying the joint out of place.

“Jeez, Kubrick.” Creedy sounded a little bit sick. “Don’tcha think that’s a little much? He’s gonna die anyways, right?”

“He’s a monster, and monsters deserve what they get.” Dazed, Sam didn’t even bother to fight as Kubrick untied his other hand. “If the mouthy sonofabitch wants to claim that he’s human, he’s  _Christian,”_ Kubrick said mockingly, “spreading lies and blasphemy with that demon mouth, then I’ll show him just how  _little_ I care about his excuses.”

Punishing hands on his other shoulder, and Sam tensed, whimpering as pain flared through his dislocated limb. “Please,” he rasped, tensing instinctively as he struggled to break free without aggravating the pain in his left shoulder. “Don’t.” Pressure, unyielding pressure. “DON’T!”

Another pop, and Sam was only distantly ashamed of the agonized wail he unleashed. He struggled to twitch his fingers as Kubrick stretched him as far as his dislocated shoulders would allow, and then bound his right arm tightly to the beam.

“Ah, that’s the first step down,” Kubrick said. Sam’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees as both men stepped backward, leaving him to bear the weight of the crossbeam. “Now, you walk. Get up.” Pain flashed through Sam’s side as a heavy boot met his side, and he keeled forward, the weight of the beam dragging him down. “Up,” Kubrick snarled, kicking him again. “You want to preach false prophecy and try to take the place of the Lord, then you can suffer as he did.”

Sam gasped for air, sweat and blood trickling down his brow, blurring his vision. “Not – preaching,” he managed. “Never asked – for visions – please –”

_“Liar.”_  Another boot to the ribs. Sam wheezed, struggling to breathe. Something warm and wet trickled past his foot, sticking dust to his skin, and he realized distantly that he’d pissed himself. He wondered if there was blood in it, or if the kidney damage had yet to set in. “Witches make deals with demons for their powers, and false prophets with powers make deals with the Devil himself. Get up, you  _animal.”_

He couldn’t take another blow. Groaning, Sam struggled to his feet, his foot slipping in the damp patch of mud created by his own piss. He panted, staring blearily at Kubrick and Creedy. Surely his vision shouldn’t already be going blurry? God, he was going soft. He’d been switched and beaten before, he’d had joints dislocated before, and this beam couldn’t be more than a hundred pounds. He could lift more than that when laid out with the damn flu.  God, how weak could he get?

“Get moving.” Fire exploded against his calves as Kubrick flicked the belt. Sam groaned and staggered forward, his ruined shoulders screaming as they were forced to bear the weight of the beam. The man drove him into the church with periodic lashes, bringing Sam to his knees before the doors.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Fire on the back of his neck as Kubrick lashed down hard with the belt. “Get up.”

Sam staggered to his feet, unable to hold back the whimpers. God, he was pathetic. “Y’know,” he rasped, his voice slurring, “When they executed Saint Peter… he asked to be crucified upside down, ‘cause he – he was unworthy to die the same way… as Christ.”

The belt buckle connected with his other kidney, and Sam fell to his knees again with a cry, a cry that turned to a shriek as the sudden motion jarred his ruined shoulders. “Shut up,” Kubrick snarled.

Sam panted, wishing desperately that he could curl in on himself. “If Saint Peter wasn’t worthy to – die like Jesus…” he panted, “and I’m an… abomination, why… would you think I’m worthy… of cruci- crucifixion?”

Kubrick stepped around in front of him, and Sam barely had time to close his eyes before the man whipped the buckled end of the belt at his face. He cried out as the hard metal slapped punishingly against his cheek, splitting the skin. “They say the Devil speaks with a silver tongue,” Kubrick said nastily. “Now, aren’t you just proof of that, Sam Winchester?” This time, the belt caught him in the chin; Sam bit down instinctively and tasted blood. “Get up.”

Sam gasped for breath and shook his head, his eyes still closed. “Can’t,” he forced out. “Hey… where’s my Simon of… Cyrene?”

Light burst behind his closed eyelids as the buckle struck him in the temple. “Kubrick, stop!” Creedy yelled in the distance. “You’re gonna beat him to death!”

Sam heard Kubrick panting above him, but another blow didn’t come. “You’re right,” the man said. “That’s probably just what the silver-tongued little demon wants.” Something rustled, and a hard hand gripped Sam’s chin, tilting his head up. Automatically, Sam opened his eyes, staring blearily at the cruel-faced man crouched above him. “He wants to avoid his punishment. I’ll have to remember that. It’s just so infuriating,” Kubrick murmured, “to hear him blaspheme so, pretending to be good. But, as the Bible says, ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. Is it not surprising, then, if his servants masquerade as servants of righteousness?’”

If he weren’t already nearly prostrate on the ground, he would slump. A single humiliating tear trickled down his cheek, and Sam took a deep breath. “I don’t serve the Devil,” he whispered. “I never would. Even if a demon has something – something to do with my powers… Didn’t God give us free will?” His dry throat ached as he swallowed. “Never made a deal. Never asked for this. Not hurting anyone.”

“Kubrick, can we please hurry?” Even as sick and out of it as he felt, Sam caught the tremor in Creedy’s voice.

Kubrick leaned in closer to Sam, his breath hot and foul against Sam’s ear as he whispered menacingly. “There is no indication in the scriptures that the Romans or the Jews cut anything from Christ’s body,” he hissed, “but this isn’t a true re-creation, because you are not truly Christ. Get up, Winchester, or I’ll unman you.” The man tutted quietly. “You’re lucky you were already circumcised, or I’d have done that, too.”

Sam’s balls drew up tight at the threat; he shivered, and struggled to raise his torso. Part of him wondered why he bothered; if he was going to die, why did it matter if Kubrick castrated him first?

But no, he wasn’t going to die. Dean would find him. Sam shuddered, then whimpered as the involuntary motion sent spasms of pain through his dislocated shoulders. He managed to force himself upright, his legs shaking from the strain of standing.

Creedy held open the door, and Sam managed to stagger through, his vision swimming from the agony. A tall beam stood in front of the damaged crucifix, and Sam fell to his knees – again – with a small whine. (In his peripheral vision, he realized that his collapse had smeared blood across the ripped, dusty carpeting.) One of the church walls was almost entirely caved in, he noticed, making room for an industrial crane.

He nearly screamed as one side of the crossbeam was suddenly wrenched up. “Creedy, get the other side,” Kubrick ordered. “We’ll drag this false prophet the rest of the way.”

Angry pains lanced through his shoulders as the men dragged him towards the towering beam and deposited him before it. Sam cried out as they pivoted him, pressing the back of the crossbeam against the vertical beam anchored to the stage in front of the altar. “The crane, Creedy,” Kubrick said irritably.

Sam stared hazily ahead as Creedy climbed into the crane and turned it on, slowly bringing the hook towards Sam. Metal scraped against his back as Kubrick affixed the hook to the crossbeam, and then he was being lifted, his arms first and his body following, dragging him inexorably upwards. Sam wanted to scream, but he could barely breathe, his shoulders on fire, his lungs barely able to take in air. The beam settled in a notch in the pole, and Sam jolted, whimpering.

He heard the sound of something scraping across the floor, then the  _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of work boots on a stepladder. Dimly, he heard Kubrick behind him, felt the brush of rope as the man fixed the crossbeam to the main beam, wrapping the rope around and around, securing it tightly. “What should the inscription say?” the man asked jovially. “Liar? Sinner? False prophet?”

Sam could barely lift his head, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, his lungs screaming. “Fuck you,” he whispered.

“False prophet it is,” Kubrick said. “But before we nail that in, we need to nail you in.”

Sam allowed his head to loll, barely comprehending the man. Why nail him in when he was already tied?

The tap of boots on the step ladder was too loud in his ears. Kubrick dragged the ladder in front of Sam and climbed back up, brandishing a hammer and some sort of battered wooden box. Sam dragged himself up as best he could with his ruined shoulders, gasping desperately for air. “Don’t,” he managed.

“What’s the matter, sinner?” Kubrick asked, leaning forward to leer at Sam. “Don’t worry. This is nothing compared to what you’ll get in Hell.”

Fingers brushed against his left hand, holding it flat, and then something pierced his skin, thick and unyielding and oh god, the agony, shit the agony, he could feel the bones in his hand break. Sam shrieked, dragging what breath he could into his lungs, and turned his head to stare at his hand. Kubrick had nailed his hand to the cross, he realized. And the man was climbing down the ladder, and he was dragging it and climbing it again, and he was coming around to the right hand, and no, no,  _no –_

Nail. Hammer. Agony. Sam screamed pitifully as Kubrick nailed his other hand to the cross. “Be glad for the ropes, boy,” Kubrick said, his voice distant. “We hung the last boy without them, and his hands ripped right through the nails. Broke all the bones in his hands, ripped his skin and muscles. He screamed like a girl – well, you did too, but still. You should thank us for our mercy.”

He could barely breathe. Sam stared in horror at the nails – more like spikes, really – pinning his hands against unyielding wood. Oh, God, he was going to die here. “Please,” he whispered, struggling to speak. “Please, can I – a priest.” He nearly choked on his own spit as he spoke.

Kubrick paused. “What’s that?” he asked slowly, dangerously.

He couldn’t just die like this. “Last rites,” Sam choked out, and it felt like blood was bubbling in his throat. “Please.” Maybe they had a priest on the payroll. He wasn’t idiot enough to think they’d grab a civilian. “Been weeks since... Confession,” he gasped.

Kubrick was silent for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. “All this, and you think anything will keep you from going to Hell?” he laughed, a deranged grin splitting his face. “Please. You’ll burn forever like the monster you are. Creedy, one of the long nails, please.”

Sam didn’t try to keep from screaming as Kubrick crossed his right foot over his left, bent his legs at the knees to push his feet up a good foot and a half, and then hammered them both into the cross. Sam’s scream was silent, that time. Kubrick supplemented the hold by wrapping the rope around his ankles and binding them tightly to the cross; from the crack, the sharp pain in his feet, and the sheer knowledge that  _feet and ankles couldn’t naturally make that position,_ Sam guessed that at least a few bones in his feet had broken.

“The last psychic lasted four days before he died,” Kubrick told Sam, his eyes alight with sick glee. “I wonder how long you’ll last. I hope you last longer. I hope it burns you until you die and go to Hell.”

And then Kubrick was ushering Creedy out of the church, leaving Sam to hang alone.

* * *

 

He could only hang so long before he couldn’t breathe. When he stayed in one position too long, he couldn’t get enough air to his lungs and was forced to drag himself back up, struggling to balance himself on mangled arms and ruined feet to suck in tiny sips of air before sagging back down, barely enough to keep himself alive. It was instinctual, really. If only he had more control, he could allow himself to suffocate.

And he couldn’t pass out for long. Passing out only ever lasted a few seconds before he woke sputtering, dragging himself up on ravaged muscles just to inhale a few sips of air before sagging back again, too weak to hold a position. The nails dragged at his hands and feet with each lurch, worrying the small holes in his extremities, slowly splitting the skin.

Time passed strangely. An eternity passed between each attempt to pull himself up and suck in air, but when he sagged back, forever passed before he could bring himself to so much as twitch again. He’d been dying forever, he thought.

The ropes around his arms held him up, but eventually they began to fray, torn by the friction of his constant motion. Twine wasn’t enough to hold an adult human male, he thought absently. The rope burn was strangely irritating – distantly, he was surprised he noticed it through the agony. He dragged himself up again to take a few gasping breaths, and he heard fibers splitting against the rough wood.

Even when full, his lungs burned and protested.

The cross jostled slightly, and cloth brushed against Sam’s torso. Kubrick stood on the ladder, right in front of Sam and close enough for his shirt to brush Sam’s skin, for what purpose Sam couldn’t begin to image. The cross rattled suddenly; Sam cried out as the motion jerked his ravaged shoulders.

“False prophet,” Kubrick said, sounding satisfied. He pulled away from Sam, who cracked his eyes open to watch the man climb down the stepladder. “The Lord was charged as King of the Jews, and that inscription was nailed to the cross – and lo and behold, so he was King of the Jews and more, to lead the righteous Jews and righteous Gentiles to the actual truth of the Lord. Your crime is far more sinister. And so, your sin will be known to any who see this cross. May other blasphemers think twice before going out into the world to spread their lies.”

His mouth was dry, but Sam managed to dredge up a wad of spit. He spat angrily at the man, and was gratified to hear him curse as the spit hit him in the face. “Go to Hell,” he gasped.

A hand reached out and deliberately jostled his ankles; Sam couldn’t hold back a scream as sinew and bone came in harsh contact with the nail in his feet. “I am a servant of the Lord,” Kubrick growled. “Lord willing, my soul will not be bound for Hell – unlike yours. You’re already damned, Sam Winchester.”

Sam gasped, hauling himself upwards to draw in a breath. “Fuck. You,” he managed, his shoulders screaming. He slumped back down, and his arms shrieked as battered muscles  _pulled,_ making every twitch agony. His lungs screamed for air, and he could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest, running on overtime.

Time dragged on, and his temples began to throb. Inconsequentially, his stomach growled, twisting and protesting its emptiness. He hadn’t eaten the day before he was taken, he remembered distantly. Right. It was hunger. He was dying slowly, and of all the damn things, he was  _hungry._ Of all the stupid things. When safe and secure, he could barely remember to eat a damn granola bar without Dean reminding him, but now that he was dying he wanted some damn food? Bullshit.

The thirst became unbearable before long. Sam coughed weakly, the motion rattling his destroyed shoulders, but he had no energy to scream. His throat was desert-dry and chafing; the longer it went on, the worse it got. In a way, the dehydration was the worst, he thought distantly. He’d suffer dislocated arms, if only for a bottle of water. His stomach churned in rebellion, desperate to throw up, but he was too weak to lean forward, to vomit bile in protest of his dehydrated state, and the acidic mix in his stomach was left to beat at the back of his throat, increasing the pain and the need for water.

Hours had passed, and his throat was dry and dusty and probably burned from the constant acid reflux. His stomach had ceased rebelling, no doubt out of the sheer futility, and he was getting desperate. “Our… Father,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Who art in Heaven, hallowed… be thy…” He coughed weakly, fluid bubbling in his throat. Blood? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. Maybe it was stomach acid, caught in the upper part of his digestive tract from the earlier compulsive need to vomit.

His lungs burned, and he writhed upwards desperately. The pressure of bracing his feet against the cross caused something in his feet to tear, and the nail slid slightly up his flesh, slicing. He tried to scream, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. His stomach tried to rebel, but gravity worked against it once again and nothing came up. He heaved in desperate gasps, to no avail; he could barely breathe.

Footsteps. “He don’t want you dying too quick.” Something soft and wet pressed against his lips; Sam’s tongue flicked out instinctively, and he sucked weakly at the sponge offered to him, pulling desperately at the scant water offered.

The sponge pulled away, and Sam wanted to cry. “Help,” he croaked. “Please.” He sagged, then cried out as the motion pulled at his ruined shoulders. “Dehydrated.”

The sponge came back, wet again, and Sam sucked desperately until the thing was dry, sour water cleansing his throat. He licked his cracked, bleeding lips. “Can’t breathe,” he managed. “Help?”

There was no response. A spasm ripped through his upper body, and he cried out as he jerked uncontrollably. Something in his shoulder tore, and a dry shriek ripped from his chest as he sagged further than should be possible. Muscles in his shoulder ripping, probably. Sam whimpered, and blinding pain shrieked through his arm as his nerve endings protested the movement of mutilated muscles. Footsteps sounded, and then the church doors closed.

He wished it would end. Squinting around the dark, empty church, he saw no movement, no speck of hope. “Nnn,” he groaned, sagging painfully in his bonds, pulling at torn muscles, only to thrust upwards a moment later as his lungs screamed for mercy.

The frayed rope holding his right arm snapped at the motion, and when he sagged back, defeated, the nail jarred against the bones of his right hand, tearing up tendons, creating pressure that threatened to break the bone. Sam choked, trying to scream, but only a gurgle exited his throat. His arm spasmed, and Sam let out a wet scream, staring blurrily at his ruined hand.

Footsteps again. “...him up!” a distant voice shouted, and something wrapped around his arm, pulling it back up and tying it to the crossbeam before the nails could break through his whole hand.

Something in him broke, and Sam burst into weak, breathless sobs, dry moans ripping from his chest as they bound him back in place. Every hitch of his chest was agony, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from sobbing and whimpering like a fucking  _child,_ making everything worse. Blinding pain spiked through his hand, beside the nexus of pain he already felt, and he turned his face to see what was happening. They were putting in a second nail, close to his wrist this time, and he groaned, allowing his head to fall forward. “Just… kill me,” he slurred.

“That’s what we’re doing, abomination.”

He heard Kubrick’s words through a hazy veil, his ears ringing. He struggled to breathe, sure that he was too weak to haul himself up again. Wood scraped against his back, inflaming the welts and wounds he’d accumulated. Only a few seconds without air, and he found himself struggling to lift his body again, wrenching in a single precious burst of oxygen before he fell back down, exhausted.

The shadows within the church lengthened and grew. The sun was setting – it couldn’t have even been eight in the morning when they’d strung him up, and night was falling.

Something in his left shoulder tore, then, but he was too tired to scream. He sagged into his bonds and allowed his mouth to fall open, fighting to bring in air. Something wet trickled down his jaw. Sweat, or blood. Did it matter?

“’ey. Here.” The sponge, again. Sam dragged desperately at the scant wetness offered to him, sucking it weakly from the sponge. They offered Jesus wine, he thought hazily. He could go for some wine, to dull his senses.

A wet cloth touched the ruined holes in his hands, and Sam screamed, breathy and inconsequential. “Ain’t gonna let you die of infection,” a careless voice said, and Sam sobbed dryly, no tears leaking from his eyes, the instinctive shuddering ripping at his arms.

Another wet sponge. Dimly, he realized it wasn’t a kindness. They were keeping him from dying of dehydration so he could suffocate under his own weight, or die of heart failure. Still, he sucked the liquid from the offered sponge, desperate to quench his burning throat.

Heave himself up, no air to scream, suck in oxygen, sag back. Unconsciousness would be a mercy, but whenever he came close to blacking out, he needed to breathe. His entire existence narrowed to the pain, to the burning wounds in his hands and feet, the fire ignited along his back, the ripping agony in his shoulders, the burning in his lungs. Everything was pain. Existence was pain.

Death couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

 

A lash of fire to his side, the belt. Sam gasped, his eyes jerking open, to no avail – it was dark in the church.

“Thought so.” Was that Kubrick? It sounded like Kubrick. “Not dead yet, then. Good. It hasn’t even been a day.” Another stripe of fire. “You were pretty adamant on getting a priest in here to corrupt, weren’t you?” Kubrick said conversationally. “How ‘bout you confess your sins to me, then, oh-so-human boy. What are you? What are your plans to destroy the world?”

Dully, Sam stared at the hazy figure in front of him. He was pretty sure it was Kubrick. “I’m Sam…” he choked. “Sam Winchester.” He heaved himself up for another breath of air, whimpering as his ripped muscles screamed, as his hands and feet tore minutely. “Human, please,” he gasped. “I’m… human.”

“Wrong answer.” A fist connected with his side, producing a loud crunch. Dull pain flared through his side, almost negligible to the agony in his arms and chest and extremities. “Confess.”

Confess? Sam’s head lolled. “Please,” he managed. “A priest. Won’t corrupt anyone. I’ll… confess.”

Another punch, another crack. “Admit to colluding with the Devil,” Kubrick hissed. “Tell me your plans to destroy the world and bring Hell to Earth and Heaven!”

The tiny part of Sam that was still aware reared back in response to this. “No,” he managed hoarsely. “Never did... Nothing to do with the Devil.”

The silence threatened to stretch on forever. “And this is why you deserve to die,” Kubrick said finally. “That lying tongue. If I were a lesser man, you might even have me convinced.”

Footsteps. His tormentor was leaving. If only the pain would leave with him.

* * *

 

Sam didn’t see the sun rise, but he could feel the heat on his skin. Flies had begun to buzz around him, landing on his hands and feet, attracted to the blood. Sam couldn’t even twitch to drive them away. One fly landed on his right cheek, the movements of its light legs tickling his skin. Sam shook his head weakly, and the insect didn’t even budge.

He might as well already be dead. Already, decay was coming for him.

* * *

 

This sponge was drenched, sopping. “Drink,” the voice urged. Creedy. Sam sucked desperately at the sponge, unable to help himself.

“Kill me,” he whispered when the sponge pulled away. “A bullet, a knife, something. Kill me.”

The man hesitated. Sam blinked, staring, but his vision was confined to indistinct lights and darks. “Did you deal with the Devil?” Creedy asked finally, his blurry form sagging back.

Sam choked on what might be a laugh. “No,” he whispered. “Please –”

“He said the antichrist would say that.” The form staggered backwards. “Kubrick has never been wrong. You  _are_ the antichrist. It takes demonic strength to go through all this and not give a false confession to end the pain.”

Something wet burst in his chest, and Sam tried to cough, but ended up choking. “Please, ‘m just human, please.” He shuddered. “Test me, test… test me, ‘m human.”

The figure trembled, and Creedy shook his head. “I – no, you’re the antichrist, I gotta –”

There was no more hope. Sam sagged in his bonds, then fought a scream as the nails ripped at his palms. He struggled upwards, taking in a breath, resigning himself to an agonizing last few hours of life, of fighting for air and sagging painfully as the pressure became too much.

* * *

 

Hands beneath his feet, propping him up. Hands, holding his arms, taking some of the pressure off. Sam stilled, confused at the lack of pressure, the reduction in pain.

“We need more rope.” Sam flinched at Kubrick’s voice. “He’s dying too quickly. He’ll last longer with more support.”

“More support? That was Creedy. “Jeeze, Kubrick, I thought we were trying to kill him!”

“Creedy, this is the antichrist.” The words washed over Sam as he inhaled deeply, sucking greedily at clean, easy oxygen. His entire body was a mass of pain, and the nails were still ripping at his extremeties, but he could  _breathe._  “Besides, maybe, just maybe, we can get him to tell us his plans to destroy the world.”

“I dunno, Kubrick,” Creedy said uneasily. “This guy seems pretty human. And if he is evil, shouldn’t we just kill him instead of drawing this out? He’s not gonna talk if he’s actually working with the Devil.”

Kubrick laughed harshly. “It’s not even a taste of what he’ll get in Hell,” he said dismissively. “He may think that since he’s working with Satan, he’ll catch a break downstairs, but the Devil lies just as easily as  _he_  does.” Silence, for a moment. “This boy tried to be Christ. So, we’ll end him the same way.”

Oxygen, beautiful oxygen, Sam barely heard what Creedy said next. “Well, do we have to  _prolong_ his death? We can keep asking until he dies… y’know, naturally.”

“Of course we do.” Sam was too tired to flinch at the venom in Kubrick’s voice. “Look at him, Creedy! This is the face of pure evil!”

“Kubrick, man, it just looks like a dying kid.”

Sam whimpered as the support to his arms dropped, even as the support beneath his feet remained. “Don’t let him warp you, Creedy,” Kubrick growled. “Don’t let him twist you like he twisted everyone else. This man is the  _antichrist.”_

“Okay, and I get it, but…” Creedy was silent for a moment. “Please, come on, man, can’t we just kill him now?”

“No!” Kubrick shouted.

“Or get a priest in here, just in case we’re wrong, shit, Kubrick, I can’t stand seeing –”

The support to Sam’s feet was ripped away, and a dry sob tore from his throat. “We’re not buying into anything this creature says!” Kubrick shouted. “For all we know, it wants a priest so it can possess him and damn more souls! I won’t take that risk!”

Sam let loose another sob as he tried to force himself up for another breath, and failed. His leg muscles were too tired to supplement his ruined arms.

“That thing will kill the world,” Kubrick said angrily. “So I’ll make it suffer in the process.”

“Kubrick –”

“No!”

Sam coughed, a harsh, grating noise, closer than either of their far-away voices, one angry, one pleading. If only Creedy were just a bit weaker – or a bit stronger, strong enough to defy his partner, he’d have a hope. But he didn’t. Like it or not, he was gonna die here.

“If you’re so squeamish, get out of here,” Kubrick said angrily. “This thing needs to  _suffer_ before it dies, and I’m gonna make sure it don’t die anytime soon.”

* * *

 

A wet sponge pressed against his lips, but he could barely bring himself to suck at it. “Shit,” Creedy muttered. “Shit, sorry, are you dead?”

“We’ll find that out easily enough.” A thrill of terror went through Sam at Kubrick’s voice.

A jolt of pain lanced across Sam’s side – a knife, probably – and he cried out miserably. “Okay, okay!” Creedy said, sounding panicked. “Not dead, that’s – that’s good.” He shoved the sponge insistently at Sam’s lips again. “Drink, please drink.”

Weakly, Sam sucked at the wet sponge. He considered asking Creedy once again to kill him, but speaking was too much effort when he knew the payoff would be so low. Besides, Kubrick would probably make him suffer for it.

The sponge pulled away, and Sam allowed himself to sag back, barely cognizant of the wooden cross irritating the wounds on his back. It would all be over soon. He’d die soon enough.

* * *

 

The sponge tasted like copper this time. Sam opened his eyes and stared hazily, but it was just a normal kitchen sponge, soaked in water, flecks of dirt scattered across the surface. Not that it mattered, really. Sam weakly pulled water from the dubious receptacle, barely enough to make even a dent in his thirst. Kubrick was holding the stick it was attached to this time, his face twisted with rage. “Confess,” he demanded.

Confess? Right – right, they thought he was… the antichrist, or something. “Yellow eyed demon,” he mumbled. If he gave them something, anything, maybe they’d kill him. He steeled himself, hauled himself up for a quick breath, then sagged back, barely even noticing as the muscles in his shoulders tore further. “Has… plans for me. Somethin’ like that.” He managed a quick, insufficient breath without dragging himself further up the cross. “Visions are all related to him. Not… sure why.”

“Good, that’s good,” Kubrick said, his voice almost soothing. The sucked-dry sponge pulled away, only to be replaced by another. The liquid in this one was salty, and the sponge was stained brown. Sam’s heart sank, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any lower. It was broth. Feeding him meant they were keeping him alive for longer.

God, he just wanted to die.

“Tell me about these plans, boy,” Kubrick ordered, his eyes shining.

Sam allowed his head to fall forward and whimpered as the position pulled at his arms. “Dunno,” he managed. “Evil.”

“Of course they’re evil,” Kubrick snapped.

Sam barely managed to shake his head. “Dad told Dean…” He paused to catch his breath. “If he can’t… save me he has… to kill me.” Sam hauled himself up for air and bit back a cry – screaming was oxygen he couldn’t waste. “So, guess I’m… evil. Dunno what I’ll do but it’s…” God, breathing was such a pain in the ass. He hauled himself up again, allowing himself the comfort of a self-pitying whine. “It’ll be bad.”

Kubrick pulled the sponge away, and he didn’t replace it this time. “I knew killing you was the right choice,” he said smugly.

“Please,” Sam managed. “Please, end this. A gun, or… something.” His next attempt to push himself up only caused the nail in his feet to slip more.

Kubrick laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “I don’t think so, antichrist,” he said. “No mercy for something demonic. You’ll hang here ‘til you die, then you’ll burn in Hell.”

Sam groaned, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, it was dark, and he was alone.

* * *

 

“Oh my god!”

The voice was shrill, high. Not Kubrick, not Creedy. Sam forced his eyes open, but even then, he could barely see more than hazy shapes. A light smear stood before him in the darkness, no discernable form. Sam sagged back, then immediately felt compelled to lift himself and drag in air, groaning as the nails ripped at his flesh again.

“Yes, no, please – um, an old church off Winston street? I – can’t you track my location?! I – no, no, please hurry, there’s this guy, he, please hurry –”

He needed to breathe again. Sam forced himself upwards, gulping desperately, taking in air.

“No, it’s an emergency!” The high voice – female, he realized – was on the verge of tears. He should comfort her. “He – he’s, someone crucified him, I mean literally, like actual nails and cross and – yeah. Yeah. The old abandoned church. Please hurry.”

She was distressed, Sam realized distantly. He hauled himself up for another breath. “Y’kay?” he managed, before slumping.

“W-what?”

She was just a girl, he thought hazily. Just a kid. Maybe his age, at the most. She shouldn’t get mixed up in this. “Y’need help?” he managed, and he was out of air, and he forced himself up again. The hole created by the nail at his feet was getting dangerously large, he realized. Much more, and he wouldn’t be able to use his legs to go up for breath. The ropes around his ankles just weren’t tight enough to provide adequate support.

He’d suffocate. Finally.

“Oh, oh God, help’s coming, I’m so sorry,” the woman babbled. “I shouldn’t’ve – I mean I’ve had these dreams for weeks, I thought it was just nightmares, like, I watched The Passion of Christ with my friends last month so like obviously that’s where it came from, then I found out the one guy I dreamed about was  _actually_ crucified and was  _dead,_  and I said ‘hey Ava, what about the new guy you dreamed gets crucified?’ But I thought I was just paranoid and – hey, stay with me!”

Her words washed over him, and he could barely comprehend them. But she seemed nice, even if when she touched him, her hands against his legs jarred his feet. Sam hauled himself up and took a few breaths, then sagged back down. What a nice girl, coming out just because of dreams –

Dreams.

Sam went rigid, then cried out as the nails bit into his hands and feet. “You – what’s your name?” he panted desperately.

“Hey,” the woman said, and soft hands were on his knees and lower thighs, and fuck, it was a kind touch, and he kind of wanted to cry. Or maybe he already was crying. Yep, that was water on his cheeks. He was surprised he wasn’t too dehydrated to cry. Those sponges must have held more than he thought. “Hey. I’m Ava.”

If she’d had dreams forseeing this, then she was psychic. Kubrick and Creedy were killing psychics. Crucifying them. And she was a civilian, she couldn’t handle being crucified – even he couldn’t handle it. “Ava,” Sam slurred. He tried to speak again, but fuck – he pulled himself up to grab more air. The nail in his feet pulled, pulled, tore, and he screamed weakly, sagging back as the nail ripped through more flesh. The damn thing was nearly as close to his toes as it was to his ankles, just from all the sawing, ripping motions. “Run,” he managed weakly, breathily. “They’re killing us. Y’got dreams, run.” She was a damn  _civilian,_ she couldn’t survive this. “We’re psychics. You gotta run. They‘ll string you up like me.”

The girl didn’t move. “You’re delirious,” she said, “but it’s okay. Paramedics are coming, and they’ll get you down, and – your feet!” she gasped, seemingly noticed that the nail had ripped at least a few inches up and down. “No, no, stay okay, it’s only a few minutes and you’ll go to the hospital, damnit, be okay!” A flash of pale movement. “Why would I see this if you won’t be okay?!” she screamed. “You can’t die! Why’d I dream about you if you’re just going to  _die?!”_

“Hey!”

Sam choked, his arms spasming, as Creedy’s voice boomed through the church. “Little girl, what are you doing here?”

The pale smudge straightened. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Did you  _do this to him?”_ she shrieked, enraged.

Silence, for a long moment. “He’s the antichrist,” Creedy said finally. “Please leave, little girl. If he lives, he’ll kill us all.” He hesitated. “He even admitted to being evil, and dangerous.”

The light smudge seemed to vibrate, and Sam closed his eyes, the motion making his head pound. “No,” Ava said angrily. “No! You stay away from him!”

“Girl, don’t make me –”

“I already called the cops!” Ava screamed. “And I’ll tell them to arrest you, I will! You’ll go to jail forever!”

A long pause. “We’ll catch him again, and we’ll make it even worse,” Creedy said, his voice far away. “Okay. Okay. I’m leaving now. But we’ll be back for him, and it’ll be even worse next time. It has to be – like I said, he’s the antichrist. I was unsure at first, but I know that now. You should call off the cops and walk away.”

A strangled laugh echoed through the church. “You’re a psycho,” she spat.

“I’m not, little girl,” Creedy said, and he sounded sad. Sam hauled himself up to breathe, not bothering to fight the groan. “We’ll be back for him.” The church doors creaked shut as Sam allowed himself to slump back down, his arms and hands in agony.

Footsteps sounded, and then something brushed lightly against his legs. “The – the nail in your, in your feet is loose,” Ava said tentatively. “Do, um, do you want me to pull it out?”

Sam tried to shake his head, then cried out as the motion sent spasms of pain through his ravaged shoulders. “I’ll – suffocate,” he managed. “If I can’t… pull… m’self up… c’n you take me down?”

Warm contact, human skin, came against his legs. “I don’t know how,” the girl said, and Sam was surprised that he was aware enough to recognize tears on her skin. “If I get the ladder and try to take some of the pressure off your arms, will that help?”

It would stop the nails from ripping at his hands, if she could manage to support his weight. Maybe he’d even be able to breathe, before she inevitably dropped him. Sam nodded, biting back a moan. “Please,” he gasped.

Several long minutes, an eternity, and then gentle hands lifted his body and closed in a supportive hug around his torso. Ava’s grip held him against the cross, keeping the nails from ripping at his hands and his muscles from tearing further. His back screamed at the pressure to the welts, but it was nothing compared to the agony of crucifixion. The girl had to be fairly strong, to hold him up, and the feeling of kind, well-meaning hands supporting him was enough to let him nearly relax. He took a deep, shuddering breath, a breath that actually didn’t rip at his feet or tear at his arms. “Thank you,” Sam whispered. His eyes itched, but he’d already cried more tears than he safely could, and he refused to let dehydration take him before he could be saved. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Sirens. He heard sirens in the distance. Ava’s small hands were warm on his pectorals as she helped hold him aloft, keeping the pressure off his hands, allowing him to breathe. His shoulders screamed, but that was the least of his worries.

Louder sirens, too loud, lights that penetrated closed lids. Sam bit his lip, whimpering as the sensations crashed through him, overstimulating. “Are you the one who made the call?” a male voice called, garbled yet also too loud.

“Yes.” Ava slumped, and Sam whimpered as his torso followed, his shoulders screaming. “Please, please help him!”

Hands, too many hands at his ankles. “Sir,” a voice said, at once too loud and too distant. “I’m going to remove the nails from your hands and feet, then I’m gonna cut your limbs free, all right?”

He whimpered. He couldn’t make himself vocalize anything else.

“Okay, let’s get him down.” Sam cried out as the cross jarred his body, moving minutely. He screamed as the paramedic carefully worked the nail from his feet, sticky with blood and grit. A second paramedic took up work on his right hand, and Sam whimpered, biting his lip and tasting blood.

After too long, the nails were out and the ropes had been cut from his ankles. Carefully, the paramedics cut the rope from his arms, and Sam slumped forward, allowing them to bear his entire weight. “Step down together?” one of the paramedics, a woman, suggested.

“Each step on three,” her partner added. “One, two, three.”

Sam groaned as the motion peeled his body from the cross, ripping open wounds that had congealed. “Jackson, we need a third person at his feet!”

Gentle hands closed around his ankles. Together, the paramedics took the stepladders one step at a time. Sam watched through hazy vision as they carefully lowered him onto a thick, adjustable stretcher positioned at the bottom of the cross. He whimpered as his abraded back came in contact with the stretcher.

“You’re doing great, honey,” the lady paramedic said reassuringly. “Can we get your name?”

Sam groaned, unable to stop himself from shivering, from jerking his arm muscles. “Sam,” he managed. “’m Sam.”

“Okay, Sam. We’re gonna wrap your hands and feet for now, and we’ll have the doc take a look at them at the hospital, all right?”

Sam forced himself to nod. “My shoulders?” he whispered.

“Jackson’s gonna radio in that we need a specialist in the OR ASAP, in case you need surgery. For now, my partner and I are gonna reset your shoulders, okay?”

“Mm,” Sam murmured in response. “Do it.”

Bright pain flared once, twice, and the searing agony in his arms faded to a dull, insistent throb of pain. Sam relaxed slightly, a whine of relief escaping his lips. He was too tired to be humiliated.

“Are you allergic to any antibacterials?” the man asked.

“No,” Sam said quietly.

“Okay, then, we’re going to apply some antibacterials to the wounds in your hands and feet before wrapping them.” Sam nodded; he winced at the cold sting of antibacterial medication against his wounds, and the following pressure of gauze being wrapped around them.

“Skip, make a note that his wounds are gonna need to be flushed and treated properly,” the woman said. Sam cracked his eyes to look at her. She looked a bit like Jess, albeit at least ten years older than her, he thought hazily. Jess was gonna help people like this too. “Sam, we’re going to cut the wire from around your head, now all right?” the woman asked gently.

“Please,” Sam whispered. The crown of thorns, such as it was, had been the least of his problems for a long while – but he still wanted it gone.

They lifted his head slightly, enough to access the crown at the back. Wire cutters sounded twice, then he heard the sticky sound of barbs being peeled from his skin. The paramedics dabbed antibacterial paste in the worst of the wounds and then laid him back down on the stretcher.

“Okay, Sam, we’re gonna get you into the ambulance now,” the man said, his voice comforting. “We’re going to take your vitals on the way to the hospital. While we do that, can you give me your height, weight, age, blood type, medications, and any allergies or history of illness and injury?”

God, that required him to think. “Sam… Antilles, 23 years old,” he managed finally. “Six-four, and… maybe 140, 145 pounds? Type O blood. No meds. Mild – mild dust allergy. Broke my arm when I was a kid, had a concussion a few months ago. Just got a cast off my right hand from a minor break.”

The paramedic nodded. “Gotcha. You’re underweight, so we’ll have to adjust your dosages,” he said. “We’re gonna move you on three, all right? One, two, three.”

Sam’s stomach lurched at the motion and he retched pitifully, a few drops of water and bile dribbling down his chin. Gross.

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher into the ambulance and secured it to the floor. Once he was secure, the male paramedic cleaned the sick from Sam’s face with some sort of wipe. “The girl who called this in asked to ride with you to the hospital. Is that okay?”

Ava. Right, the soft pale smudge who defended him. “Yeah,” Sam managed. “Also, call my… my brother.”

“You want your brother?” the man who’d been speaking to him asked gently.

Dean only knew he’d left the motel room. “Please,” Sam moaned, his voice hitching as he was jostled. He didn’t quite feel the pain, but he knew that was due to hospital-grade painkillers. “D- He’s in my phone.” Almost too late, he realized he couldn’t give them Dean’s name. They were supposed to be wanted criminals.

“We don’t have your phone Sam,” he said quietly. “Whoever did this to you, they took your phone.”

Right. They’d taken his clothes, why not also take his phone. He’d miss that purple dog shirt, he thought hazily. “Need to call him,” Sam said hazily. “He’ll be worried.”

The male paramedic shushed him. A slim woman entered the ambulance, then the female paramedic closed the ambulance doors and took a seat beside him. “We’ll get his contact info as soon as you’re stable,” she said quietly. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Breathing was hard enough. They’d rescued him, why would they make him do anything, make him talk? But they needed the info. Sam took a deep, ragged breath. “Kubrick and Creedy,” he said, then took another few deep breaths. “Called me the antichrist. Not the first they did this to.”

She nodded sympathetically, no judgment. Her counterpart wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his aching bicep and carefully inflated it.. “Do you know how long they had you?” the female paramedic asked quietly.

The sun had been up, then set, then risen, then Ava found him after it set again. “Less than two days?” Sam guessed, after a few breaths. “Hurts,” he added. “They… They gave me water. And some broth. Didn’t want me to die quick.”

The cuff around his arm deflated, and the male paramedic took a moment to read the numbers. “Blood pressure is 100 over 40 – Anya, I’m gonna have Jackson call in that he’s gonna need a blood transfusion.”

“Got it,” the female paramedic – Anya – said quickly.

The man unstrapped the cuff from Sam’s bicep and went up front to pass Sam’s blood pressure readings to the driver. Anya shifted slightly and turned back to Sam. “They had you for a few days, then?” she asked quietly.

It was only an eternity. “Yeah,” Sam managed.

Anya nodded. “Good, Sam. That’s very good. Now, I know you want to rest, but can you tell us what other injuries you sustained?”

That was easy enough. “They… whipped me,” he managed. “With a belt. Mostly the buckled end. Mostly upper back, but I took a few blows to the face, neck, and kidneys.” He took a few breaths, trying to re-inflate his lungs. “They wrapped barbed wire around my head. Dislocated my arms, stretched them out far as they could, tied me to the cross. Made me carry it into the building. Strung me up. Then nailed my hands and feet, then broke my feet to tie my ankles.” He shivered. “Whipped me again, a bit. Punched me in the ribs. My hand… almost tore through the nails, so they nailed it back again.”  _Think._ “Felt like a few muscles tore in my chest. I think… think that’s it.”

“Can you breathe properly?” Anya asked. “We can give you an oxygen mask, if you’re having trouble getting enough air.”

Sam wanted to laugh.  _Buddy, I’ve been suffocating for at least a day, this is like being in a damn oxygen tent._ “I don’t need it,” he said aloud.

“Okay,” Anya said gently. “Let us know if you can’t breathe – bang on the stretcher if you have to. Get some rest. You’ll go into treatment as soon as we get to the OR.”

Sam wanted to argue, but he was so tired. He was tired, and he could  _breathe,_ so surely it was safe to sleep – but he couldn’t know that. It could be a trick. “I want my brother,” he said finally.

Anya shushed him. “We’ll find a way to contact your brother when you’re stable,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t enough. “Won’t sleep without him,” Sam said. “Keeps me safe.”

The only figure in the ambulance not dressed in a uniform shifted and let out a tiny sob. Sam turned his head towards her, noting her slim build, round face, limp brown hair. “Ava?” he guessed, his voice cracking.

The woman covered her mouth with her hand as she nodded. “Yeah,” she said shakily. “Yeah, that’s me.”

She looked like she was about to cry, Sam thought to himself. “Thank you,” he whispered, his hand twitching as he tried, and failed, to reach out to her.  _“Thank you.”_

A tear slid down Ava’s cheek, followed by another, and another. “You-you’re welcome,” she said, her voice choked. She reached for him, then pulled back, raising her hands as if scared to touch him. “And, and you’re gonna be just fine, all right?”

Would he be fine? Distantly, Sam took stock of his injuries. They’d taken his word and hadn’t hooked him up to oxygen, which was a good sign. They were also talking surgery on his shoulders, and apparently were getting a specialist in at the OR. The nails in his hands had torn the skin and might have even cracked bone, but he didn’t think any of his tendons were irreparably damaged – he could still twitch his fingers, if he tried. His feet –

He didn’t want to think about his feet. The nail hadn’t gone all the way through to his toes or up to his ankles, but it had ripped through skin and muscle, and he damn well knew his bones were broken, probably in multiple places. There had to be nerve damage somewhere. Sam shivered – what if he never walked again? Shit.

He took a deep breath, and took stock of other issues. The lack of oxygen probably hadn’t done his lungs or his heart any favors, and the stress of maintaining that position had probably done a number on his kidneys, even with the limited movement he’d had. That meant that the old Winchester coping mechanism of burying injuries in alcohol was out of the question, damnit. In the background, his back screamed with and burned in agony, he had no doubt that some of the deeper whip marks may be at risk for developing infection. His face throbbed where he’d been struck with the belt buckle, but he could open his eyes fully, so probably nothing in his face was broken. Muscle tears were no joke, but those would heal in time. He was probably dehydrated, and the broth was the only thing he’d had to eat in longer than Kubrick and Creedy’d had him, so it was possible that they’d declare him malnourished. They’d already said he was underweight.

The need for surgery on his shoulders was the most worrisome. It didn’t seem like this was going to be just a day or two in the hospital. He probably wouldn’t die, now that he was off the cross and out of immediate danger, but he wondered if full recovery was even possible.

It was hard to gauge the passing of time, but Sam would estimate that nearly 30 minutes passed before the ambulance pulled in at the hospital. Made sense, he thought – the area around the church was definitely rural. He was probably lucky that it was only 30 minutes out.

The male paramedic opened the doors when they finally parked in the OR ambulance bay, and he was wheeled towards a waiting gurney, lifted and laid gently on crisp, clean sheets. A nurse rushed to take the place of the paramedics before they were even ten feet away. “Okay, Sam,” she said, her voice almost unnaturally gentle. Practiced bedside manner, probably. “Doctor Igwe has been informed of your condition and has been prepped to do surgery on your shoulders. Do you consent to this?”

Of course he did – he knew enough field medicine to know that this was going to take more than just popping his shoulders back in. He wasn’t getting full use of his arms back without professional intervention. “Okay,” Sam said quietly – what else could he say?

“Between surgery and physical therapy, you should gain close to full use of your shoulders,” the paramedic said, keeping close with his stretcher. “We’ve got a specialist coming in to do surgery on your feet after we take care of your arms, all right?”

Again, what could he do but nod? “Yeah,” he said.

“No allergies to general anesthetics, right?” the nurse confirmed.

Well, most of his experience in medicine was with a bottle of whiskey and a poker face, but hey, if he died, at least it wouldn’t be on a damn cross. “’M good,” he said.”

The nurse nodded and whipped out a set of forms. “You probably don’t have enough use of your hands right now to sign these, so if you could just – she produced an ink pad from somewhere – “put your thumbprint on the signature line of each form?”

Sam nodded, and let the nurse press his thumb to the ink, then to the signature line of each form. The nurse then wheeled him directly into an operating room – damn, either this podunk hospital was in a  _really_ clean-cut and healthy part of town, or he was worse off than he thought. He’d expected at least  _something_ of a wait. The nurse fixed a mask around his face while a dark skinned doctor in scrubs and a lab coat prepped herself for surgery. “Breathe in and count back from 100,” the nurse said kindly. “100, 99, 98…”

* * *

Coming back to consciousness was like swimming through mud, unpleasant and painful. Something was jammed up his nose, he realized. Thick heaviness surrounded his hands and feet, and he couldn’t move his shoulders if he’d wanted to. Blearily, Sam blinked himself awake, and stared at the half-drawn white curtain and off-white wall before him.

Shit, that’s right, he’d ended up in the hospital.

“You’re awake?” a timid female voice asked. Sam turned his head, careful to not dislodge the cannula or jostle his IV. Seeing her properly, she was wide-eyed and round faced and pretty, in a girl-next-door way. She smiled when Sam met her eyes, slumping in relief. “Oh, God, I was so scared you wouldn’t make it,” she said, her voice cracking. “I… I saw you hanging there and I thought I was too late, and you…”

Damnit, he didn’t want this girl to cry. “Hey,” Sam said gently, grateful that he didn’t have a tube down his throat. “Hey, Ava, right?”

The girl looked up, all red-rimmed eyes and held-back tears, even as she tried to twist her lips into a smile. “Yeah, that’s me,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Ava, you saved my life,” Sam said. The heart monitor beeping in the background was proof of that. “They had me almost two days.” He swallowed hard. “I… I think they said the guy before me lasted four days.”

Ava’s eyes welled over, and she dropped her head, closing in on herself. “I d-dreamed about h-hi-him,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “I thought it, it was a nightmare, b-b-but I could have saved h-him,” she wailed miserably.

Sam’s heart ached, and he longed to get out of bed and wrap her in his arms. He couldn’t, though – he could barely twitch. “Ava,” he said loudly, trying to break through her tears. “Ava!”

Ava looked at him, her face covered with splotchy pink patches, eyes red and irritated. “Y-yeah?” she sniffled.

“Ava, it’s not your fault,” Sam said quietly. “I ignored my first few visions. I think we all do. But you – you checked up on me on a whim, and you  _saved_ me.” Unbidden, a raw laugh ripped from his throat. “Wish I’d been able to save my girlfriend, after I dreamed her death.”

Ava bit her lip, her eyes watering, and leaned forward to lay a hand on Sam’s mattress, shy of touching him. “I still wish I got there sooner,” she said, her voice wavering.

Sam offered her a tired smile. “You saved my life,” he assured her. “I’ll leave the semantics behind, if it’s all the same.”

Fat tears rolled from Ava’s eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe if I’d gotten there sooner, I could have stopped them before they did anything.”

Those thoughts only led to the road of self-hatred – Sam knew that. “Ava,” he said quietly. “The guys who got me… they were professionals.” He swallowed hard. “They would’ve probably hurt you. You saved my life. I can’t ask for more than that.”

Ava exhaled, a tiny sob escaping her mouth. “I was so scared,” she confessed, and her hands did find his, then. Sam let her hold his hand gently, her fingers careful to avoid the medical dressings. “I, I thought you were gonna die, I thought you  _were_ dead at first, who  _does_ that to someone?!”

Unbidden, Sam felt his lips turn up in a tiny smile. “Crazy religious fanatics,” he said softly. “They thought… they thought I was pretending to be Jesus, or something.” This girl was a psychic, so she was probably connected to the demon, but like  _hell_ would Sam burden her with that tidbit of knowledge. “They weren’t gonna be stopped. They were trying to kill me slow, and you stopped them.” Sam met her eyes and tried to smile genuinely. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. Or I’d still be on that cross, dying, without anyone to stop them. You  _stopped_ them, Ava.”

Fat tears rolled down Ava’s cheeks. “I-I’m so glad you’re alive,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I can’t believe this is real.”

Sam twitched his fingers, relieved to still have some degree of motion, and stroked her palm.  _“Thank you,”_ he repeated, smiling at her.

* * *

Ava’s fiance showed up a few hours later, wild-eyed and white faced. Sam consented to let him into the room when asked. Apparently, he’d been privy to Ava’s dreams, and seeing a living, breathing result of her nightmares shook him. The fiance, Brady (Sam had once had a friend named Brady, a good man), waited until Ava was asleep in her chair before talking to him.

“She dreamed about you,” Brady said, his voice flat, but nonconfrontational.

Sam nodded. “She told me,” he said, staring at his bandaged hands.

“Do you…” Brady hesitated. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Sam bit back a laugh, but looked the man in the face. “You love her, right?” he asked.

“Would I be marrying her if I didn’t?” Brady asked fiercely. “What’s going on?”

Easing civvies into reality was never easy. “Do you believe in psychics?” Sam asked quietly. “Actual psychics, not phone-line frauds.”

Brady chuckled humorlessly. “She told me about my aunt dying three hours before it happened,” he said flatly. “She described our next-door neighbors a day before they moved in. I know she’s psychic.”

That made things easier. “There’s a demon,” Sam said quietly. “A demon that touched all of us psychics at birth, or something. It connected us. She saw me because of some demonic connection.” It raised a question about Brady’s aunt and neighbors, but Sam was too tired to think about it.

Brady was silent for a long while. “Okay,” he said finally. “And?”

Sam didn’t understand. “And, what?” he asked.

“So she got touched by a demon and became psychic. She’s a good person. She seems to think you’re a good person. So what – what does this demon shit mean? How do I…”

Sam tried and failed to prop himself up on his elbows; he finally collapsed, defeated. “What, protect her?” he asked finally. “Keep salt on hand always. I’ll give you the number of a guy, Bobby Singer, who can help with keeping demons away.”

“And the visions?” Brady asked. “They hurt her. I need them to stop.”

Sam tried to fight back a laugh, and ended up coughing and coughing and coughing instead. “Sorry, but if we could protect against everything, there’d be no need for hunters,” he said. “People who fight the supernatural,” he clarified when Brady’s brow furrowed. “I’ve known about this stuff since I was a kid, and _I_  can’t even stop the visions.”

Brady nodded, frowning. “Is she in danger?” he asked.

Sam stared at Brady for a long time. He probably wasn’t a threat, he decided. “They came after me because I’m psychic,” he said finally. “She found me for the same reason.” Brady’s eyes flickered with fear – good. “Keep her away from anything supernatural,” Sam said quietly. “And keep quiet if she has prophetic dreams. I’m glad she saved me, but she’s in danger as long as she’s having visions.”

Brady swallowed hard. “I won’t let anyone lay a finger on her,” he said fiercely.

Sam offered a tired smile. “Good,” he said. “We’re not evil, or bad, but the people that took me…”

Brady scowled. “They’ll have to go through me first. I’m not letting her out of my sight after this.” He chuckled humorlessly. “She always did want me to spend more time with her friends. Guess I’ll be doing that, if I go with her to their girls’ nights.”

Sam relaxed back into soft pillows and cushy bed, the dressings on his back shifting softly. “Good,” he said. “Keep her safe. Hopefully she won’t catch their interest, and she can live like any other psychic. I know a few psychics that don’t seem to have any sort of connection to demons, and they live pretty normal lives.” Maybe normal was stretching it – Missouri had seen fit to help with the poltergeist case, and all – but this girl hadn’t gotten in too deep yet. She still had a chance.

* * *

 

After nearly three days in the hospital, he received a visitor of his own. “Sam,” one of the nurses said, poking her head into his room, “a Robert Plant is here, claiming to be your brother.”

Sam bit back laughter. Robert Plant – seriously? “Wonder how he found me,” he said. He’d played at not remembering his brother’s number after his ordeal, to keep them from finding out that Dean was a wanted criminal.

“Different fathers, I take it?” the nurse asked, smiling. Right – Sam had told them his last name was Antilles.

“Mom kept her name,” he said with a shrug. “Rob got Dad’s last name – my parents were pretty big Led Zep fans, and all,” he said. “I got my Mom’s last name.”

The nurse laughed lightly. “I’ll send him in,” she said, and closed the door.

Less than five minutes later, the door swung open again. The smile dropped abruptly off Sam’s face; Dean was pale and sweating, his hands trembling, staring at Sam with wild, desperate eyes. “Sammy,” he whispered, crossing the room in only a few steps. He dropped to his knees beside Sam’s bed and closed his hands around Sam’s wrist, carefully avoiding the damages. “Sammy, oh my god.” He dropped his head and pressed his face against the side of Sam’s bed.

Sam stared in shock as a tear, an actual tear, slid down his brother’s cheek. “D-Rob?” he managed, barely remembering to use the alias. The nurse was just outside the door, after all.

To her credit, the nurse took a step back. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” she said gently, and closed the door.

“Dean?” Sam asked carefully. “Dean, are you... Are you okay?”

Dean looked up, and Sam inhaled sharply – his brother’s face was shiny, slick with snot and tears that just kept coming. “Ellen called,” he said, “two days ago. Said two hunters were in the bar complaining about how, how someone interrupted them fuckin’  _crucifying_ you. Guess they saw Ellen start coming to talk to them, ‘cause they hightailed it out of there before she could even get out from behind the bar.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The one was saying it was okay, ‘cause you were pretty much dead already.”

Sam sighed and twitched his fingers. Dean let go of his wrist, and Sam gently raised his hand to his brother’s face, resting his fingers against Dean’s cheek. Rather than jerking back and teasing him, Dean leaned into the touch, and that more than anything told Sam that his brother was hurting. “They got close,” he said. “But I’m gonna be okay. Mostly, anyways,” he said, making a face. “Apparently I’m gonna need physical therapy on my shoulders once they heal enough, and I’ll be in special-made shoes forever, but I’m going to be  _okay,_ Dean.” He smiled weakly. “Some nerve damage to my arms, hands, and feet, but physical therapy can fix a lot of that.”

Dean nodded desperately, and then he was on his feet, leaning over Sam to grip Sam’s face between his hands. Despite the awkward angle, Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s. “I thought you were dead, I thought they killed you,” he babbled. “I was so scared, Sammy, so scared, don’t you  _ever_ do this to me again!”

Sam reached up to awkwardly pat Dean’s shoulder with the uninjured heel of his left hand. “I’m not dead,” he said gently. “C’mon, Dean, have a little faith in me. You think a couple two-bit hunters could take me down?” He decided not to mention that without Ava, he surely would have died on that cross.

Dean laughed, a wet, miserable sound. He settled back on his heels, and though his eyes were still watering, when he met Sam’s eyes his gaze was iron. “Got names?” he demanded.

In any other circumstance, Sam would protest, would talk his brother out of revenge – but as long as those assholes were out there, Ava was in danger. Andy was in danger. Hell, even  _Missouri_ was probably in danger, and she likely wasn’t even connected to the demon. “Kubrick and Creedy,” he said. “Those were the ones who wanted to crucify me. Not sure if they’re first names or last names, but I know someone who will know.”

“Who, Sammy?” Dean asked. Sam  _really_ should remind him that it was Sam, not Sammy, but he decided to let it go. Dean seemed like he was barely holding himself together.

“Gordon,” he said, meeting Dean’s eyes. Looking as closely as he was, he could see the sudden jolt of understanding, the flicker of rage.

“Sam.” Dean swallowed hard. “How is Gordon involved – what did he do to you? Tell me.”

Sam nodded. “He broke into my hotel room. Knocked me out – probably chloroform. Brought me to those assholes. Apparently, he owed Kubrick or something.” Sam shook his head. “Still, he told me if it were up to him, he’d have just shot me. He still wanted me dead.”

Dean growled. Sam ignored him and continued on. “In a way, maybe I should thank him. If he’d just shot me, I’d be dead. Instead, I got a few days of torture, but I’m going to live.”

“That bastard,” Dean snarled, clenching his fists. “I’ll rip the  _skin_ from him!”

Sam laughed tiredly and shook his head. “I’ll settle for a bullet in his brain and a walk through his contacts to get to Kubrick and Creedy,” he said. “And,” he added, as a thoughtful look crossed Dean’s face, “a  _clean_ death for both of them. I mean it, Dean. I don’t want revenge.”

Dean scowled. “Okay,” he said finally. “But I can kill them?”

Sam nodded. “I’m not safe while they’re alive. Neither is Andy, or Missouri.” He hesitated. “And – and the girl who found me, Ava, she only knew where I was because she had a vision. She’s not safe from them either.”

Dean nodded. “Should send her a gift basket,” he said absently. “Guess I know who I’m gonna be hunting while you do your physical therapy,” he said, a tiny smirk gracing his face.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He hesitated before asking his next question. He knew how Ava had found him – how had Dean? “Dean, I’m technically listed in the hospital as a John Doe, even though the staff all think my name is Sam Antilles,” he said carefully. “Apparently, they did that for my protection. But it means I know you couldn’t find me by my name or my aliases. So, how did you find me?”

Dean’s lips quirked in a tiny smile. “Dude was probably another psychic, or something,” he admitted.

Sam raised an eyebrow, and Dean sighed. “Look, I thought you were dead, and I wanted to – I dunno, connect with you or something girly like that, so I went to a damn church,” he admitted, disgruntled. “This dude came in. Weird little dude in a suit and backwards tie and giant-ass trench coat. He kept staring at me, and when he came over to me, I was all prepared to tell him I was straight –”

“You know, the more you insist that every time a guy breathes near you, the more people wonder,” Sam couldn’t help but quip.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up, bitch,” he grumbled. “Anyways, I was gonna let him down easy, but instead of hitting on me, he said he knew where my brother was. Gave the name of the hospital and said to say I was looking for Sam Antilles. Left before I could say a damn word.”

Some guy just… told Dean where he was? “Dean, do you really think this guy is another one of the psychics?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Aren’t they all like your age, though? This guy was probably in his thirties,” he said. “Could be a Missouri-type psychic,” he said after a brief pause.

“Can you get a description to Ash?” Sam asked. “Maybe he can do… something.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure. Tall-ish caucasian dude in his thirties with dark brown hair and blue eyes,  _that’s_ unique.” Dean shook his head. “The man’s good with a computer, but he’s not  _that_ good.”

Dean had a point. Sam could think of at least two nurses and a janitor who fit that description in this hospital alone. “Right,” he said.

* * *

 

Dean stayed in town and visited the hospital for a solid week before taking off on a tip from Ellen about Gordon’s whereabouts. A spiteful part of Sam hoped that his brother would be able to kill the bastard, but a part of him doubted it. Gordon was slippery. If Dean could at least pull info on Kubrick and Creedy from Gordon’s phone, that would be enough.

The next week, Bobby visited him, not bothering to use an alias. Sam only had to hear Bobby’s name before approving him for visitation.

The grizzled old hunter looked simultaneously lost and determined as he sat down at Sam’s bedside. “Gordon Walker’s been blacklisted from the hunting community, as far as I have reach,” he said without preamble. “So have Brandon Kubrick and Mitch Creedy. They get none of my resources, and the guys who trust me know to shoot ‘em for coming after you like that.” He offered Sam a haggard smile. “I find out who their friends are, they either get a come-to-Jesus moment or a bullet, depending.”

It was nice to have full names, and even nicer to know that Bobby had his back. “How are things going, Bobby?” Sam asked.

Bobby snorted. “Quiet, without the dog,” he said, his voice tinged with a bit of sadness. “And it’s a damn hindrance that I can’t call you and your brother in.” He shook his head. “Dean’s busy going after human monsters, and you – you just gotta get back in fighting shape, however long it takes.”

However long it takes indeed.

* * *

 

Three months and too much physical therapy later, Sam was finally cleared for discharge. He’d have been out earlier if he hadn’t developed a persistent infection in his left hand only a week after Bobby’s first visit, but with that cleared up, he was free to go. Bobby had rustled up a manual wheelchair from one of his contacts and had forced Sam to swear that he’d keep off his feet while his wounds healed. The thing was too damn small, and he couldn’t really wheel himself with both arms in slings, but Sam didn’t dare risk the wrath of the in-house physical therapist by removing them, even though he was pretty sure he could use his arms for small tasks after all his work. Bobby had agreed to take care of Sam while he recovered anyways, like they didn’t already owe the man too much.

The staff had given him a recommendation for a good outpatient physical therapist just outside Sioux Falls, and had helped him set up his first appointment; that card went in Sam’s new wallet. The other card, the one he didn’t want to even  _think_ about, got shoved into his jacket pocket, just as soon as his discharge clothes were dropped off. He’d deal with it later.

Bobby picked Sam up at the curb and helped him transition from the wheelchair to the passenger’s seat of a rusty old Chevelle. “Gettin’ too damn old to lift lugs like you,” Bobby grumbled, rubbing his back and reaching out pull the seatbelt across Sam’s lap.

Sam’s cheeks burned in humiliation. “Yeah, well, we’ll pay you back when you get old,” Sam said, trying to muster up some humor. “Watch us carry your crippled old ass around when you’re eighty.”

Bobby snorted loudly. “Boy, you think I’m gonna make it to eighty, you strongly overestimate both my hunting skills and my liver,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Idjit,” he added fondly, closing the door.

Only a few seconds later, Bobby climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. They drove in silence for a few minutes before Bobby turned to meet Sam’s eyes, a brief glance before looking back at the road. “Your brother caught up with Gordon,” he said quietly. “The man’s dead. Shot right in the head. Guessing you told him to kill them clean, did’ya?”

Sam nodded. He wanted to feel bad about Gordon, but he only felt relief. “Yeah,” he said. “Kubrick and Creedy?” he asked.

Bobby scowled and rolled his eyes. “Hiding like cowards,” he spat. “Hunters ain’t demons – we don’t get off on pain. We put actual monsters down clean. Those men tortured a human and got their jollies from it, no matter all the religious mumbo-jumbo they used to justify it. They’re as good as monsters, and they know they can’t show their faces to me or Dean, or any of our friends, any time soon – not now that we know what they are.” Bobby smiled wryly. “But we’ll get them, boy. They can’t hide forever, and we’ll take them down. Cleanly, like you wanted,” he added. “We ain’t savages like them.”

That night, in Bobby’s guest room, Sam finally pulled out the card he’d been avoiding. It was a recommendation for a community mental health clinic that offered both therapeutic and psychiatric services. Shrinks and super-shrinks, Sam thought wryly. Like they’d messed him up that badly. He wasn’t crazy, and Winchesters didn’t do shrinks. He’d be drooling at the mouth and babbling to the air before he went there.

He’d seen a psychiatrist in the hospital anyways, a single session three weeks in, when they’d moved him to a new room, a room with a crucifix on the wall. Sam had frozen, unable to breathe, and the sudden activity from his heart monitor had sent several nurses and one of the doctors running into his room. A panic attack, the psychiatrist had said during their session, not too uncommon in people with PTSD.

Please. Sam scowled and ripped the card into tiny pieces, careful not to move his shoulders. This was probably more motion than he should allow his arms without professional supervision, but there was something cathartic about destroying the card, getting rid of the evidence. If years of hunting monsters and facing down the supernatural hadn’t given him PTSD, like hell had two days with some punk-ass religious fanatics.

He was fine, damnit. Physically, he’d recover just fine, and like  _hell_ would he let this shit affect him mentally. He wasn’t that weak.

* * *

 

“Y’know, Sam, it’s Sunday,” Bobby said abruptly one morning, nearly two weeks after bringing Sam into his house. “Just thought you might like to know.”

Sam nodded without looking up, staring blankly at the book of protection spells in front of him. He didn’t remember anything from the past ten pages – not that it mattered. As far as he knew, the only way to completely ensure that Kubrick and Creedy didn’t get their hands on him was to kill them, and the slimy bastards were pretty good at hunkering down, it seemed.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “I… Well, I’m not exactly the church-going type,” he said, “but if you want, I can dust off my old suit and go to a service with you.”

Sunday. Church. Right. Sam snorted and shook his head, allowing his hair to fall in front of his eyes. “I’m good, Bobby,” he said quietly.

“You sure?” Bobby asked. “Used to be, that was important to you.”

Sam didn’t bother to look up. “Yeah, well, that’s before I got strung up by a couple religious psychopaths who thought I was the antichrist,” he said. The open page swam before his eyes, and he swallowed back nausea. “Sorry if I ended up a bit jaded towards religion.”

The chair next to him scraped as Bobby pulled it out and sat down. Sam tensed and clenched his fists, dropping his head further to allow his hair to obscure his face. “You’re a shit liar, boy,” Bobby said, his voice flat. “One of my bibles is missing, and I damn well know it’s under your pillow. And don’t think I don’t see you mutter your little blessing before you eat, when you bother eating, that is. So clearly, it’s not that you’ve gone agnostic. How about you try again, and without the bullshit this time, boy.”

It was funny, the way his fingers tingled when he clenched his hands tighter. “Yeah, fine,” he muttered. “I just don’t want to be in a church right now, all right?” Maybe if he kept staring at the book, he’d light it on fire with his mind.

…Actually, that was a concerning possibility. Sam forced his head up and stared at the wall instead. “I don’t want to sit in a building and stare at a cross for an hour, and think the whole time about how I know what it feels like.” He laughed humorlessly. “How you know, crucifixes have the nails put in wrong, always in the hands and feet. That nail almost ripped through my hand, even with ropes to support it.”

Bobby swore quietly, and Sam glanced at him quickly before looking back at the wall. If he concentrated, that coffee stain almost looked like a cat. Interesting. “I still believe in God, Bobby. I just don’t want to go to church.”

“Balls,” Bobby muttered. He was silent for a long moment, and Sam turned his attention to the other stains on Bobby’s wall. It couldn’t possibly be unintentional, how much that one looked like a parrot. Maybe Bobby’d gotten drunk one night and decided to paint with whiskey. The nonsensical thought made Sam’s lips twitch.

“You know,” Bobby said, his voice halting, “there… there are people you can talk to. People who don’t do much but talk for a living. Might want to look into it.”

Sam snorted derisively. “Seriously?” he demanded. “It’s not enough that the doctors thought I might, might have gone cuckoo from this, now you’re on the ‘Sam’s crazy’ train?”

He might have expected the cuff to the back of the head. “Would you say that if it was a damn civilian?” Bobby demanded. “Way I’ve seen it, you Winchesters deal with bad things by getting drunk and getting into fights –”

“And you, what, go to some smarmy dude in a suit when you’re upset?” Sam snapped. A part of him felt like he was being unfair – he’d known plenty of people in college to use the counseling center, and none of them were particularly weak.

This felt different, somehow.

Bobby snorted. “You kiddin’ me? I see a shrink called Jack Daniels,” he said, and Sam could nearly hear the man rolling his eyes. “But your kidneys are still shot and you can barely hold a pencil, much less a gun. You don’t got your normal ways to handle trouble, so maybe you should try the civilian way.”

Sam scowled and awkwardly wheeled around to meet Bobby’s eyes. (If his physical therapist knew he wasn’t using the slings, he’d give Sam hell, but Sam couldn’t stand having Bobby wheel him around the house.)

Bobby met the challenge in Sam’s eyes with his own stubborn gaze. “You got a better plan than moping around my house, scratching up my floors and eating – or  _not_  eating – my food, then let’s hear it, ya idjit!” the man demanded.

“I’ve been doing research,” Sam snapped. “Protection spells. Warding spells. Freaking  _tracking_ spells, and their counters.”

“Yeah, and the whole time, you’ve been moping around while you do that. Can you even remember anything you’ve read?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Bobby, I’m fine,” he argued. “I’m just… taking a little while to get back into researching. I’m a bit rusty from a few months without it.”

Bobby slumped somewhat, the wind seeming to go out of his sails. “I’ve got half a mind to drag your gimp ass to the car and make you see a shrink anyways,” he grumbled. “Okay, compromise,” he said. “You keep sulking around all day, pretending to research. I keep pretending I don’t got Edgar Allen friggin’ Poe living in my house. In exchange, you eat every day, you got it?”

Sam frowned.  _That’s a bizarre request_ , he thought. “I… okay?” he said finally.

“I mean it,” Bobby said fiercely. “No more of this whole, this ‘going three days without food ‘til I jam a burger down your gullet’ thing.”

Sam blinked in surprise. He’d certainly been unnerved by the vehemence with which Bobby had shoved a hamburger at him yesterday, ordering him to eat and watching him until it was gone. “I didn’t eat for three days?” he said, confused.

Bobby snorted. “I know exactly what food’s in my house at all times. When your brother comes over, it’s like a whole pack of starving orphans raided my fridge. Now? Sam, you realize you’ve been here two weeks and only eaten about six times? And then, only when I made you?”

He hadn’t realized. “I’m not doing it on purpose,” he said, frowning. “I just… forgot. I haven’t been hungry.”

Bobby folded his arms across his chest. “Well, fine,” he said. “You just make sure you remember, this time. You slip up, and I’m dragging you to a shrink, because not eating’s also not such a good sign of…” Bobby snorted. “Mental health, I guess it is. Or physical health, mind. If your brother’s likely to die of a clogged artery at forty, at this rate, you’re likely to starve yourself to organ failure.”

Sam felt the blood rising in his cheeks. “Way to make it sound like I’m some anorexic 14 year old girl,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes to stare at his hands.

“Yeah, well, I know you ain’t, but I am still damn worried,” Bobby said. “Your organs aren’t in great shape. You gotta eat right.” He smiled tightly. “Besides, Dean’d kick my ass if you got any skinnier on my watch, and while I’ve got guns and good aim, he’s got youthful vigor on his side.”

Sam snorted at that. “You’ve got a point,” he admitted.

One of Bobby’s many phones blared in the kitchen, and Bobby rose from his chair. “Hold that thought,” he said, striding out of the room. “Singer,” Sam heard him say as he picked up the phone.

Sam looked back at the book and flipped back several pages until he got to where he’d stopped paying attention. “Uh-huh,” Bobby said. A long pause. “You sure?” he asked again.

A pause, and Bobby re-entered the room with a cordless phone in his hand. “It’s your brother,” he said, his voice eerily blank. “I’ll put the phone on speaker,” he said, and pressed a button.

Sam swallowed hard. “Dean?” he said.

_“Heya, Sammy.”_ Dean’s voice crackled through the earpiece of the phone, grainy and slightly distorted.  _“Good news – that piece of shit, Kubrick, is dead. His little friend Creedy came crawling out of the woodwork, said he’d tell me where Kubrick is if I spared his life.”_

Sam inhaled sharply. Kubrick was dead, and damn if that wasn’t a weight off his mind. But – “So, Creedy’s still alive,” he said, his voice trembling.

_“For now,”_ Dean said. There was a thump, and someone yelped in the background.  _“Say hi, you piece of shit.”_

Creedy’s trembling, oddly-pitched voice warbled through the phone.  _“H-hi,”_ he said shakily, his voice cracking.

For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe. Fire flared through his shoulders, the pain almost as vivid as it had been at the time. He remembered rough wood igniting his ruined back, inflaming wounds that had healed as raised, knotted scars. He remembered sour water trickling down his throat, foul and disgusting, a relief in comparison to everything else. He remembered nails ripping through his hands and feet, tearing the skin and breaking bones. He still couldn’t walk, and his feet would always be tender. His hands would heal, in time, but they would always be slightly numb.

He now had free access to air, but hearing his tormentor’s voice, he almost felt like he was suffocating again.

_“So, Sam,”_ Dean said, jerking Sam out of his reverie.  _“I took him alive, and I put a bullet between Kubrick’s eyes – clean, like you wanted.”_ Dean inhaled sharply, the sound crackling through the speaker.  _“I took this bastard’s deal with the terms that I wouldn’t kill him, but as I figure, it’s up to you if I honor that deal or not.”_

Sam forced himself to take a few breaths to calm down. Could he ever be safe, with Creedy out there? And what about the other psychics? Ava, and Andy – they deserved to be safe. And it’s not like they could hold Creedy to a promise to not come after them.

Sam couldn’t take the risk. “He’ll go after more people,” he said, his voice shaking.

_“No!”_ That was Creedy, his voice distant in the background.  _“No, I won’t, I swear I won’t, I-I’ll retire from hunting, I’ll leave the country, please!”_

A laugh ripped from Sam’s throat. “How many times did I beg you for mercy?” he demanded harshly, addressing Creedy. “Dean, make it quick,” he said. “Don’t let him suffer. We don’t want to sink to their level.”

_“No –”_

_Bang._

Sam sat, frozen, through the next few silent seconds.  _“It’s done,”_ Dean said, his voice heavy. Sam didn’t blame him – his brother had wanted revenge, but killing humans was a lot harder than killing monsters, Sam guessed.  _“I can be at Bobby’s in 16 hours, less if I ignore the speed limit. That okay?”_

Sam glanced at Bobby, who nodded. “Sure thing, Dean,” he said quietly. He thought about the gunshot, about Creedy’s abrupt silence, and hoped he hadn’t made a huge mistake. Somehow, the relief he’d expected hadn’t come.

* * *

 

Dean rolled in shortly after midnight. Sam’s eyes itched and hung heavily – he’d been awake since four in the morning, and while he could keep going if he had to, part of him screamed for sleep. He let Bobby answer the door, too tired to wheel his way over. In any case, his arms had started to ache around dinner (which he had eaten, to Bobby’s approval), and he was back in his slings.

“Hey, Bobby.” Dean sounded exhausted. Sam tensed slightly at the footsteps, and Dean made his way into the living room. “Hey, Sammy,” he said, collapsing on the couch with a sigh.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam jerked his body awkwardly in an attempt to lurch the chair forward.

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t bother,” he mumbled. “I’ll probably pass out in a few minutes. Been a couple days since I slept."

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “I mean that I’d been up almost 30 hours and was getting ready to crash when Creedy called me. Another ten hours to get Kubrick. Another hour before I killed Creedy, two to take care of the body, 14 to get here.” Dean huffed a laugh. “So I’ve been up… 57 hours, give or take a few minutes?”

Sam swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said. “We can talk when you wake up, then.”

Dean collapsed face-first onto the couch. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Sam frowned – he’d been sleeping on the couch more often than not, to escape the humiliation of having Bobby carry him up the stairs to the guest room proper. But Dean needed the sleep. Loath to wake his brother, Sam managed to extricate himself from his slings, wincing as his shoulders twinged, and wheeled into the library, where Bobby sat, pouring over an enormous tome.

Bobby looked up at the sound of squeaking wheels. “Lemme guess, your brother passed out on the couch?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

Sam flushed as he nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, staring at his feet, jammed awkwardly into the wheelchair’s footwell.

Bobby nodded. “Well, I’ll carry him upstairs,” he said, rising with a groan. He smirked when Sam gave him an odd look. “Look, I gotta haul one of you upstairs, may as well be Dean. He can get himself back down when he wakes up – you can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “You keep sleeping on the couch. I don’t want to be dragging you up and down the stairs if I don’t gotta.”

Embarrassed, Sam ducked his head. “Thanks, Bobby,” he mumbled.

“You got it,” the grizzled old hunter said. “Damn, it’s like I’m running a hotel,” he joked as he made his way towards the living room. “I oughta start charging you rates.”

Sam shrugged. “I mean, if you want –”

“No, and you shut your mouth,” Bobby said, grinning at Sam. “I’ll take my payment in favors, thanks. I’ll just call you boys up for the real nasty hunts.”

Sam chuckled and wheeled over to the couch. Carefully, he began the awkward process of transitioning from the wheelchair to the lumpy old cushions. “G’night, Bobby,” he called.

Bobby grunted in response, and Sam smiled as he pulled the worn afghan from the back of the couch over his body. His palms tingled slightly where they met the fabric, sensation not quite fully restored.

He realized, as he relaxed back against the couch, that he felt  _safe._ Gordon had been dead for weeks, and now Kubrick and Creedy were gone. Dean, the killer of Sam’s tormentors, was here and was ready and willing to protect Sam – even as he languished helpless in a wheelchair.

Thinking of it that way was almost humiliating. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He was safer than he’d been since Gordon took him. Something like relief seeped through his veins – there it was, the feeling that hadn’t come just from the intellectual knowledge that his kidnappers were dead. Apparently, he needed to see their killer to believe it. For the first time in months, he slept easily.

* * *

 

For several months, Dean came and went, always stopping at Bobby’s between hunts. Sam focused on physical therapy and dove into research, and eventually, the slings came off for good. A week later, he was able to ditch the wheelchair, though his podiatrist sent him home with a number of shoe inserts and a strong warning to only ever wear custom shoes. He included, with the warning, a card for a bootmaker in Kansas who would be able to accommodate his foot size and the need for ankle support, to compensate for any lack of feeling.

He could hold a gun, aim, and shoot, and the fact that his numb hands tingled in protest only meant so much. He was ready. The nerve damage wasn’t going away entirely, but he knew his weaknesses enough to compensate for them.

When Dean picked him up in the Impala, it felt like coming home.

* * *

 

_A giant version of Kubrick loomed over him, taller than the cross, leering down at Sam as he hung in oddly-distant agony. “You got anything to say for yourself, sinner?” he asked, caressing Sam’s cheek mockingly with a strangely normal-sized hand._

_Despite the lack of oxygen, the words flowed freely from Sam’s mouth. “You’re not my priest,” he said._

_“I am your confessor,” Kubrick said, stripping off his shirt to reveal a clerical collar. “Three humans died on your orders.”_

_Sam shifted against the cross, and noticed distantly that the scrape of wood against wounds really only tingled. “That’d be the nerve damage,” Kubrick said, as if reading Sam’s mind. “Good thing your nerves will still work in Hell.”_

_Sam nodded – that seemed reasonable._

_“It’s time to let you down now.” Sam glanced behind Kubrick – huh, how had he not seen Creedy before? The man stepped forward; in the light, Sam could see a bullet hole neatly boring through his head. The brain was visible, strangely intact – maybe they hadn’t killed him after all._

_Creedy grew taller as he walked forward; he pulled Sam off the cross with a pop, and Sam realized he’d been held up with suction cups. “Smart,” he remarked, gesturing with one unharmed hand at the setup._

_“We’ve been saving you,” Kubrick said dismissively. He was normal height, now. When did that happen?_

_The door to the barn (wasn’t it supposed to be a church? He’d thought it was a church. Weird) swung open. Ava walked proudly to the center of the barn, her eyes glittering yellow. “That’d be for me and mine, Sammy-boy,” she said, speaking with Sam’s father’s voice. “You’re gonna wish you’d died on the cross.”_

_Before Sam could respond, the room flashed and he was pinned to the cross, this time with nails running the entire length of his arms and legs. The room flashed again, and he stared down at the floor in horror as the cross rose and tilted, pressing flat against the barn ceiling. He gasped, thrashing desperately and watching blood ooze from the wounds. Beneath him, Ava grinned, something inhuman. Her face rippled, morphing into Mary Winchester’s face, and she snapped her fingers._

_Sam screamed as agony ripped through his veins. The fire roared all around him, crisping his skin and filling the room with the sickening scent of roasting meat._

_“Forged in fire, die in fire,” Mary said, smiling at him as he burned. “It was always meant to be this way, Sammy. Don’t fight it.”_

_Sam screamed, wrenching desperately. Nails clattered to the ground as he dislodged them, but he was still stick, still pinned to the cross and the ceiling like a butterfly in a collection, consumed by the heat and the stink and the pain._

“Sam!”

_“Sammy!” Mary called. “Come find us in Hell!”_

“Sam, god damnit, wake the fuck up!”

_He’d felt his eyes melt, so why could he still see? Why wasn’t he dead yet?_

An icy sensation crashed over him without warning, and Sam jerked abruptly to a sitting position, gasping for breath as he took in the brown walls and avacado-green carpeting of the shit motel they were staying in. Dean stood above him with the now-empty ice bucket, his eyes wide and wild. “D-Dean?” Sam demanded, his heart thumping furiously against his chest.

Dean didn’t say a word as he put down the ice bucket and took a seat at the foot of Sam’s bed. Sam absently swept the ice around him to the floor and watched his brother curiously. Dean was shaking slightly, and his freckles stood out sharply against his sheet-white face.

“Shouldn’t have listened to you,” Dean said abruptly. “I should have carved them up slowly, for what they did to you,” he said. “None of ‘em deserved a clean death.”

Sam shook his head. “Dean,” he said gently. “I… I didn’t want them to suffer. I just wanted them gone.” He offered a tiny smile. “Killing them slowly wouldn’t stop the nightmares.”

Dean wrapped his arms firmly around his stomach. “Maybe not yours,” he said tightly.

Sam frowned. This was all wrong. By now, Dean should be laughing this off as a chick-flick moment, maybe making some sarcastic comment about Sam waking him up. “Dude, it’s done,” Sam said, searching Dean’s stricken face. “Compartmentalize and move on, right?”

Dean laughed at that, a sick, raspy sound. “Compartmentalize, yeah,” he said roughly. “Dad’s advice. Nice words, coming from a man who never compartmentalized in his entire damn life,” he said bitterly. “No, all our lives, things went the way they did because he couldn’t put Mom into a compartment and move on,” he said, staring at the floor. “And I can’t put you in a compartment and move on.” He glared at the floor as if willing the ugly carpet to move away.

He was silent, for a beat. “You didn’t wake me up, you know,” he said abruptly. “I was already awake. I’ve had the same damn nightmare almost every night for the last, what, seven months?” He cleared his throat. “The same dream, one where that girl never found you. Sometimes you’re dead when I get there, and you’re rotting on a damn cross.” He cleared his throat again, and Sam would never mention that it sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Sometimes, you die right when I get there. Sometimes, I get you down, and you die anyways. Either way, you always die, and I can’t – I can’t do it, Sammy, I can’t go on if you’re dead.” Dean blinked rapidly and shook his head.

The air left Sam’s lungs as if he’d been punched. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. He hesitated – he and Dean weren’t that much for physical comfort beyond the occasional manly hug – and then laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean sagged against his hand, some of the tension leaving his body.

Sam swallowed hard. “I…” he began, struggling to piece together his thoughts. “I knew you thought I was dead, and I knew you hated what they did to me, but I…” He paused. “I didn’t realize it’d messed with you this much.”

Dean snorted. “’Course it did,” he muttered. “D’you know how shitty it is to hear that the most important person in your life is dead, and you can do fuck-all to change it?”

Sam tightened his grip on Dean’s shoulder. He did understand, better than Dean probably realized – it wasn’t that Jess had been  _more_ important to him than Dean, but she’d been important on a similar level. Losing her had put holes in him that would never heal, but at least he’d had Dean to lean on in the immediate aftermath. Who would Dean have had? Bobby, maybe, but Bobby would’ve been grieving him too.

Dean sagged abruptly. “Fuck, I can already feel my new vagina growing,” he joked weakly, and something in Sam relaxed, because  _this_  was the Dean he knew.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder once more before releasing his grip. He got the hint from that quip – serious talk over. “I mean, we all know how much you love lady-parts – I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy yours.”

Dean laughed and cuffed Sam’s shoulder. Sam winced instinctively, even though the joint no longer hurt so much as it tingled. “Bitch,” Dean said.

“I mean, you’re the one who’s growing a vagina –”

Dean picked up a half-melted piece of ice from the blankets and lobbed it at Sam. “Just for that, I’m not gonna offer to switch beds with you,” he taunted.

Sam hadn’t been planning on going back to sleep anyways, but he laughed nonetheless. “As if you’d offer that in the first place,” he joked.

Dean shook his head, a tiny smile crossing his lips. “Yeah, well, I guess you’ll never know,” he said lightly.

Sam shook his head and pushed aside the cold, sopping blankets. “I’m gonna go for a run,” he said, stretching as he stood. “Care you join me?” he asked, grinning in anticipation of Dean’s answer.

Dean stared at Sam for a few solid minutes. “I’m gonna commit you to a funny farm,” he said finally. “You have permanent foot damage, and you’re going  _running?_ If I were you, I’d be milking the damage for a handicapped sticker for the Impala.”

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. “I have high-quality running shoes with personalized foot inserts,” he said. “But hey, it’s nice to know that when a wendigo is after us, I only have to outrun you.”

Dean nodded agreeably. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. I, meanwhile, am going the fuck back to bed like a sane person.”

Sam chuckled. He changed quickly into shorts and a ragged old T-shirt, then slid on his ankle-support socks and customized running shoes. He took one of the motel keys with him, then left his brother to sleep while he worked off excess energy.

* * *

 

Saint Veronica’s Catholic Church. The lizard-brain part of his mind screamed just to look at it, even though it was a stately building, made of light brick and located in respectable suburbia, not a rundown clapboard structure in rural nowhere.

He took a deep breath, gathered his nerves, and walked inside. Foot over the threshold, right into some  _very_ strong AC. His shivers had nothing to do with the low-grade fear that thrummed in his veins. Nothing at all.

Compared to the churches Sam was accustomed to, it was fancy. The polished foyer held a stone well of holy water and branched out at several doors into various hallways. A large, open archway led into the church proper, all polished wood pews and plush carpet. The stained glass windows depicted beautiful scenes of faith and passion, colorful and expertly carved statues lined the steps to the altar, and graceful archways were carved symmetrically into the brick walls. It was a lovely building, Sam thought hazily.

He’d appreciate it more, he was sure, if he could take his eyes off the enormous crucifix centered at the back wall behind the altar.

At least ten feet tall, the giant image of Jesus was twisted in romanticized pain. The crown of thorns rested on his head, not digging in, cutting, burrowing against bone. Tiny droplets of discreet red graced his hands and feet, but the rest of his body was clean and unmarred. Even the modest cloth around his waist was a meticulously clean white, and the muscles etched into the figure showed no signs of strain. Jesus’s face was one of rapture, not pain, and Sam felt a surge of irrational anger.

This was a cross designed for people to look upon, to praise Christ’s sacrifice and talk about how  _good_ it was. This depiction meant  _nothing._ What would these people think, Sam wondered, if they saw the back of a man scourged for a crime he did not commit? If they knew that Jesus had probably pissed himself with pain, the way Sam had. That suffocation and agony did not come with a beautiful gasp, but with a red face and desperate pants and nails that ripped bloody tunnels through the skin when placed incorrectly.

But no, such a depiction of pain did not belong amongst pristine stone walls and stained glass and soft, rich carpet. Sam slid into one of the pews and dropped to his knees, not bothering with a kneeler. He stared at the cross and let bile bubble in his stomach, sickening him.

Without thinking, without praying, he knelt for hours. Twenty minutes in, a suburban housewife-looking lady entered the church and cast a frightened look at him before entering a side-chapel; a pimply teenager left as she entered. She left an hour later, replaced by an old man. Prayer cycles, devotionals. He’d heard of those. Keep someone in the church in prayer at all times. How nice.

The old man left when a young mother-and-son duo took his place. Sam looked up at the cross and gritted his teeth. It was wrong, it was all wrong, just a squeaky-clean image for squeaky-clean civilians. The remnants of his fear soured into disgust, and he rose abruptly, not bothering to genuflect on his way to the foyer.

He hesitated before dipping his fingers in the holy water and crossing himself when he left the church.


End file.
